Galanthus
by SilverCascade
Summary: "He's pulling snowdrops by their roots." Post-Canon. Angst, and about as close to friendship as Komaeda can get. One-shot.


The world is too much with us; late and soon,  
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;  
Little we see in Nature that is ours;  
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

- William Wordsworth, "The World is Too Much with Us"

* * *

He's pulling snowdrops by their roots. Their bowing heads nod to him as they're finally freed of their constraints when the madrigals start. Knees wobbling more than a newborn foal, he stands. It's okay, he says, but the murmur echoes only through his head. It's okay.

The air sways with sound. Humbling, youthful screams of the sparrow and nightingale, who watched him grow from his irregular seeding. It's surprising they've graced him with presence; but pleasantly so, as if they don't mind how he'll destroy them. Nagito Komaeda doesn't know how he's supposed to feel, hearing those voices. He stops. The last snowdrop falls through thin fingers, landing on the grass without a hiss.

He stands, dragging his limbs through warm air, body sighing and creaking as hairs of grass let him leave. A cricket sings. Komaeda smiles. He likes smiling, even if it isn't always the truth; there's something about the twitch and flex of holding a smile too long, the twang in his cheeks and the drops of pain. He likes it. It reminds him of what it means to be alive, and just how lucky lucky lucky he is.

Since the fields are always empty, he follows the sound, lightness in every tread; there's no worry, no pain - if there's no-one to hurt, he can be calm. He can also be aware of the space, of the way the lack of occupation crushes his bones and squeezes his heart. He can feel the shake in his hand if he becomes aware. He can, but he doesn't. Instead, he patters through the grasses, earth squishing between his blunt and ragged toes, the corpses of worms stamped on his heels, and he canters over silvery snail trails. Each motion brings the snapping of twigs through his hair and hands.

The aubade doesn't lessen, even as he presses past the bushes, all bordered leaves and sweet buds, and stumbles. He falls face first into the grass. Through muddy lips, he laughs. Hands splattered in soil, cheeks coated in dirt, stripes of brown snaking his arms, his legs, his eyes. Mother claims him as hers - she can hurt him, but she can take the pain away too. The fields where the only scent is false honey, where three deep breaths into the blood-red flowers drop you in bliss. The days he awakes in the field of the young dead warriors from his land and others, he is airbourne and sleepy.

Yet the trickling of water catches his eye; he blinks the filth away and takes his stained eyelashes to its brim. A millisecond later he sees blue, bubbles popping over his head in a steady, muffled drone.

A fish, black and grey and beautiful, swims past. His nose touches its tail; it winks at him, he'll swear it, and swims away. Komaeda throws himself into the water when his lungs give. He's inside a golden-blue pool where light pours in, beneath geysers of aquamarine bright enough to to burn his eyes. The sky, too, is brilliant; so long as he's here, it's going to be blue.

His t-shirt sticks to him, but the mud slides off as the water ripples. There are bugs everywhere, tiny black carcasses floating on the surface, legs kicking at the sky for light. There's more than enough light now.

They settle in his hair, but he doesn't mind; there's so much debris, skeletal bones of the forest tangled in the white wires. He's just thankful he has hair. Maybe he should've said yes to those machines, cream behemoths holding fearsome reputations. He remembers them with benevolent blinking teeth. Maybe he should've said yes, but the time has passed.

Heaving himself onto the bank, he's panting hard by the time he steps out. The water leaves him in silken ribbons and bulbous ends. His teeth are grey, but he smiles again. His feet dangle over the lip, and he peels the t-shirt and shorts away, placing them under the brush. They'll dry out in due time.

With a mighty woop, he flings himself into the pond. The splash is almighty.

The word in his mouth is so sugary, but grey-green eyes open when warm water submerges him, slaps of hair plastered to his forehead. He giggles. The rough strokes of weeds on his legs, the palatable taste of minute death on his tongue, the tired, strangling fractures of the surface water closing in. This is more like it. This is so much more his forte, thinking about how things should be - how things need to be. And the pond should be clearer, the sky bluer, the water, cooler. As he thinks it, it happens.

Despite the anonymity here, the significance of the day doesn't escape him. Impossible not to know, not when something momentous always happens - something yay, something nay. The sun beats his shining back, and to any and no onlooker, he's glowing. Cold water, warm heart, and eyes that have never been more alive - they'll sprout shoots if he pushes any harder.

There's a twist in the gut, usually too little too late, but it comes before the next wave. It's brimming inside, stomach acid rocking, and has been this way since dawn. But it's always dawn here. Komaeda hopes he's right, he hopes it'll happen, and he hopes they'll come and see him. How old is he now? That doesn't matter. The scenery doesn't change. But today, they're waiting for him, and he's waiting for them. Change is inevitable.

The world dims. Water freezes his fingers, so he leaps out. Clouds, so many impenetrable clouds, waiting, watching, just beside Komaeda's head. He waits. He waits. He doesn't stop waiting. The snowdrops slip from the ground into his hands.

There's a splash of thunder; he looks up. The rain begins.

* * *

They know this is a miracle. They've been told a thousand times, they've been warned to be careful with their hope - they don't have much left, do they? Best look after it. Naegi tells them their life is their decision, but the others aren't so friendly. He visits them often. But they were coming apart, fringed seams fraying, bursting at little more than a flex of their exasperation.

Then this happens.

Souda thinks it's a joke when Kuzuryuu screams. Wearily, he takes the elevator to the ground floor, and finds himself screaming alongside the gangster. Sonia's on her knees, cradling the trembling man, and she's crying. Hinata stands, watching, assessing the situation; shock has his limbs, but his mind is alert. They're going to be busy, because it's a miracle.

Owari is nowhere to be seen; but there's sniffing in the kitchen and the largest member of their entourage is shakily getting to his feet. Souda runs over, slings his hand under a massive shoulder, and hauls him from the stinking chemicals. They ease him out, but there's a stirring to their left. They hold their breaths. The pods hiss open.

Bandages trail over the edge, and Hinata is at her side in an instant; she's not crying. Souda takes the weight of two to the kitchen. The big man is Owari's responsibility, anyway. She owes him. Hinata passes him, guiding the shaking girl to her domain. The door and the white cross closes behind him.

Three, in the space of seconds, is impressive. It's even more impressive after three minutes; Kuzuryuu is shaking as water slides along his face, and all the doors are open.

It's sloppy work, moving flesh, and it's even sloppier when you have to be careful, when you're shaking too. Owari's hands can barely open the caskets. They can't be called by that name anymore, but that _was_ their name: secretly, unanimously.

But that isn't what they're thinking now; most of them aren't thinking at all. Sonia's sitting beside him, holding his hand, stroking his scars, her eyes now dry and her smile now wide. Kuzuryuu hasn't stopped weeping; his eyes leak but she holds him to her, whispering strong things too quietly for anyone to hear.

Owari hasn't said a word, but her hands are full. She's barely nibbled on the ingredients. Though she only grunts when he asks her what she's doing; there's something she wants to tell him, but she can't. Not yet.

Souda and Hinata, they're alone now. They've been busy, but the requests have been those of frightened children woken from a nightmare: hugs, soup, and explanations. Souda's in the kitchen now and then, doing what he can, but there are no complaints about the miscellaneous soup. Hinata articulates what he can with red eyes and a closed throat. Nobody shouts, nobody cries.

The closest thing to a reaction, save for blinking and stunned thanks, is a sigh courtesy of Mioda. Her disheveled hair and missing right ear make her shake her head.

"So, when will this Naegi guy get here? He's coming to see us, right?" she says, grabbing Hinata's shoulders. He shrugs. "Maybe we should send them selfies while they wait! Hinata-san, c'moooooooooon!"

Hinata feels a smile pulling at his lips, and looks behind her. There's nobody left. There should be two more faces, but he now knows why that is not how it is going to be.

Souda had pointed out the date. The flowers were Sonia's idea, and Hinata, as usual, puts together the pieces. Some half-hearted promises later, he leaves Mioda at the infirmary.

"Thank you," he says. He sifts through the pale light. Green glass and bubbling blue water separate them, and the mask covering the sleeping boy's mouth brings certainty to his hand. Flowers are placed on top of the pod, a bundle of sickly snowdrops. There's a sharp step and Sonia looks his way. She doesn't say anything, but stands beside him. They watch the slow rise and fall of the boy's chest.

Kuzuryuu's footsteps are so quiet, they don't hear him until he reaches them. He doesn't look up, but a thick frown sits on his brow. His eyes don't leave the pod. Owari doesn't bother hiding herself. Pushing past Hinata, she stares at the blurring colours, before her fists pound the glass.

"What the hell do you think you're playing at?!"

Sonia's hand pulls her back. "Please. Have some respect."

Silence.

"Hey, you guys done?"

Souda's announcement is clear, but he quietens upon seeing their reserved stances. Taking his place beside Sonia, he watches the tubes.

A chill takes your stomach as you realize you owe somebody something; they owe him now. Because the boy has done what he promised.

"Happy birthday, Komaeda," says Hinata. "I hope you got what you wanted."


End file.
